


Take Away His Strength

by Atisenia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Let's Write Sherlock, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, biblical reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisenia/pseuds/Atisenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock solves the case but loses something in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Away His Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 1. I've been reading all these amazing stories that people create and this little idea popped into my head. I wish I could work on this some more but I've only just finished my exams, so...;)  
> The prompt: _After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…_
> 
> English is not my first language and I did my best but you'll probably still find some mistakes here.

The silence between them isn’t unusual. After years of living with Sherlock Holmes and following him around foolishly, John is used to the quiet the same way he is used to endless monologues. The taxi driver, on the other hand, feels clearly uncomfortable and keeps shooting John sympathetic glances in the rear-view mirror.

John sighs. It’s not as if he’s not aware of the epic sulk that Sherlock is currently having. He’s just been trying very hard not to look at his friend for fear of making things worse. But something has to be done sooner or later, he supposes.

He glances at Sherlock and bites his lower lip to stifle the most immediate reaction. He takes a deep breath through his nose and only then feels safe to properly look at his friend and assess the situation.

Sherlock’s looking out the window, low in his seat. His coat collar almost covers his ears and his arms are folded tightly around his chest. He’s obviously upset and maybe also a little bit hurt. John takes another deep breath.

“Don’t,” Sherlock says and though it’s probably supposed to be cutting, it feels more like a plea, so John drops it.

“Fine,” he mumbles and looks down at his hands, still not trusting his reactions. He messed up once already and once was enough. He’s not going to hurt Sherlock even more.

Instead, he thinks about yesterday morning when Mycroft came to visit and left Sherlock with a new case. There was no murder this time, just some political _situation,_ so John wasn’t expecting Sherlock to take it, with their history of pointless sibling rivalry and all, but Sherlock’s eyes lit up in excitement John had always found contagious. He followed the brilliant detective, like he always did, no questions asked.

Soon, they were standing in front of the pretentious flat of Robert Bartram. When the door opened, Sherlock strode inside with ease, as if he owned the place. John refused to feel intimidated by the overstuffed interior.

“Ah, Mycroft’s certainly efficient,” said Bartram as he shook their hands. John decided he didn’t like his affected voice. “He sent you here quite quickly, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock scowled.

“My brother is no more capable of sending me anywhere than he is of getting rid of his ridiculous umbrella and we both know how likely _that_ is,” he said, not bothering with pleasantries. “No, I’m here because I want to be and I suggest you don’t make me change my mind. If you want to see your wedding ring again, of course.”

John’s expression matched Bartram’s awed one for a brief moment but was quickly replaced by irritation when he looked at the politician’s hand. That one _was_ quite obvious.

“Tan, indentation, the nervous turning move that’s rather pointless now, don’t you think?, and the fact that you haven’t seen your wife in... what?, two, three days?” Sherlock said with growing impatience.

“Three,” Bartram murmured, dropping the affected notes in his voice. John liked it even less that way.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said smugly. John should probably tell him to stop mocking Mycroft’s friends but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “I don’t understand the problem. You can always say you’ve lost it. These things happen all the time, from what I’ve been _told_.

Right. Because of _course_ Sherlock Bloody Holmes didn’t lose things like ordinary people did. He just left them in random places and kept sending John on scavenger hunts and John indulged him like an idiot.

“Charming, isn’t he?” Bartram said looking at John and then finally led them to sit on the pretentious sofa. Tea was served and only then did Sherlock speak again.

“Tell me about the woman who took your wedding ring...”

“We’re here,” the cabbie’s voice grounds John in the present again. He blinks at the empty seat beside him. “He’s gone. You going after him or...?”

John sighs.

“I don’t imagine he’s already paid?”

Of course not. Trust Sherlock to ignore such _mundane_ things. John pays the fare and hops out of the cab. He’s not sure what he’ll see in the flat and how to confront his friend this time. He opens the door and climbs the stairs, feeling unprepared to fight off the storm but still willing to try.

There’s no sign of Sherlock though, which is rather worrying. Normally, he would let the whole world know he’s angry or bored, sulking on the sofa or shooting the walls where John could see him and join him in his misery. Attention seeking child, that’s what he is. So John feels slightly uneasy when he doesn’t see him in the living room.

“Sherlock?” he calls out and cringes a little bit at the hesitant note in his voice.

There is no answer for a long while and John begins to feel like a fool standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room and listening to the signs of live in the flat. Finally, the bathroom door opens and Sherlock quietly emerges into the corridor. Something in his stance screams defeat. John takes a deep breath to form a question but Sherlock doesn’t let him.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, echoing what he’s already said in the cab. Then he turns around and flees into his bedroom.

John can only grit his teeth and nod sharply, even though Sherlock can’t see him anymore. He puts the kettle on and then sits in front of his laptop with a mug of hot tea in his hand and chaos in his mind. He fully intends to make some sense out of it and opens the draft section of his blog.

_We were going to find Robert Bartram’s wedding ring_ , John writes and deletes it with a frustrated groan. They weren’t, were they? It probably seemed that way to Bartram but John knows how to read Sherlock.

“Are we really going to look for this man’s wedding ring?” John asked sceptically when they left Bartram’s flat.

“Yes,” Sherlock said but his mouth twitched with badly concealed mirth and John wasn’t fooled even for a second.

“Ok, so where’s the catch?” he asked, exasperated, while they waited for a cab to appear. Sherlock shot him a look of surprised innocence that was as fake as Bartram’s marriage. John crossed his arms. “Oh, come on! You don’t care about him, or his wife and you certainly don’t give a damn about his public image. So what’s this about? Is the ring some... ultimate murder weapon or something?”

Sherlock smirked as he climbed into the cab and shook his head.

“As always, John,” he said when John sat beside him, “you miss the obvious.” He began typing furiously on his phone, ignoring the impatient glances the cabbie was sending them. “It’s not about the ring _at all_.”

“What? Sherlock—“

“St. Bart’s please...”

“ _John_.”

He abandons the blog post when that deflated voice reaches his ears and turns around to see Sherlock hovering in the doorway, his usual confident energy gone. It feels utterly wrong and makes hating the woman who caused this even easier.

“Right,” is all John says before directing Sherlock to the sofa. Then he goes to make tea and toast, determined to shove it down Sherlock’s throat no matter how much he protests.

As it turns out, though, Sherlock doesn’t protest at all. He chews slowly and swallows with effort but he’s not complaining. He didn’t eat when they stopped for lunch, even though John ordered him his favourite sandwich. He just talked while John ate.

“So you’re saying this is not Bartram’s lover taking revenge on him because he doesn’t want to leave his wife?” John summed up a long deduction that started with the ring and somehow ended with a list of several other victims, all male, dirt samples (soil, John!) and a Bible story, of all things.

“Were you even listening?” Sherlock asked in that exasperated tone of his that meant he was magnanimously tolerating John’s idiocy for greater purpose. “Of _course_ it is not revenge. Unless you mean revenge against all men, which would be adequate, I suppose. No, it’s power play.”

“What, like with Irene Adler?” John asked before he could think better of it. But Sherlock only waved a dismissive hand.

“No. The Woman was all games and fun and protection. This, _this_ , is ideological.”

“Ideological?” John gaped at him. “Sherlock, how can stealing some men’s stuff be ideological? It wasn’t even that seriou— Sher— Sherlock!”

But Sherlock completely ignored his calls and was already striding out of the restaurant, leaving John to hastily finish his meal and follow...

“So, what’s the title?” Sherlock asks looking at the remaining half of his toast as if it’s personally offended him.

John abandons his train of thought and looks at Sherlock, confused.

“Sorry?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but it lacks the usual scorn.

“The case. How are you calling it?” he says. “I saw you with your blog open.”

“Then you probably know that I haven’t written anything yet,” John says and Sherlock turns his back to him on the sofa with a scowl. “Hey, don’t be like that!”

There’s no reaction coming from Sherlock other than curling further into himself and John sighs. At least the case is solved. Well, sort of. The woman’s still free, but John hopes it’s only temporary.

John takes the mugs and the half-eaten toast to the kitchen and washes the dishes, giving Sherlock some space. Sherlock needs to accept his loss and John would only stand in the way. He knows his place and doesn’t argue, sometimes not even when he disagrees, like when Sherlock left him to watch the building while he himself went to search the woman’s flat. He found the right one thanks to the dirt samples and his watchful friends from the homeless network. It was still pretty bloody impressive.

John knew it was a bad idea to separate. It always was. But he thought he could indulge Sherlock this time, since there was no real danger to his life. Besides, John _would_ probably be of more use outside than inside the flat.

So he waited, for Sherlock to return or for the woman to appear and, finally, he got the latter. There was only one problem: she was leaving the building, not entering it...

“You could just call it _Samson and Delilah_ ,” Sherlock says with his face burrowed in the sofa. “Would be fitting.”

John smiles gently and goes back into the living room. He glances at Sherlock’s head and resists the urge to gently caress the exposed skin. Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate it. He would probably take it the wrong way, given the circumstances.

“How come the Bible didn’t get deleted?” John asks and sits on the coffee table. “You’re not religious.”

“It’s useful,” Sherlock mumbles and then turns his head slightly towards John. John decides he misses the curls. “People get inspired.”

“Well, I can certainly see _that,_ ” John says. A woman stripping men of things representing their strengths, leaving them powerless. Yes, John is perfectly able to make the connection. “Her name’s not Delilah though, is it?”

Sherlock groans.

“No,” he says and turns to lie on his back with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Her name’s Katherine Mason, Delilah is just her alias. I’ve already texted all the details to Lestrade. I imagine he’d be surprised to find the solution to the case he doesn’t know he has, but he may be able to catch her.”

John tries not to feel guilty and fails. He could have stopped her. He saw the woman — Mason — leaving the building after all and he even _talked_ to her, even if she was the one to do all the talking.

“Ah, you must be the John dear Sherlock was trying to call,” she said looking at him with an amused smile. John’s stomach sank with worry and he just ran past her to get to Sherlock as fast as possible. “Don’t worry, he’s fine,” she called after him. “Though his pride may not be.”

John ran into the flat and for a moment just gaped at Sherlock in shock. And then he laughed.

“I can _hear_ you thinking, you know?” Sherlock says and pouts. John recovers quickly.

“Sorry,” he says. “For not catching her, I mean. I thought you were in danger.”

“Yes. A lovely gesture but completely unnecessary.”

“This time,” John says and they both now it’s true. It’s not his bloody fault that Sherlock always needs to have the last word.

“You could have used your brain for once,” he says. “She’s not a killer.”

He says it as if he regretted she wasn’t and John shakes his head.

“It’s not that bad, you know,” he says gently.

“You laughed.”

“Yes,” John concedes. “Yes, and I’m sorry. But it’s only hair, Sherlock. It will grow back. She could have taken that brilliant brain of yours. Or your eyes...”

“You’re not listening!” Sherlock protests and turns his back to John again. “She’s not a murderess. She doesn’t hurt people.”

“She did manage to hurt you though,” John says, looking at the hairless skull of his friend. It will take time to get used to. “Even if it’s only your pride.” Actually, he might use some humility. John carefully doesn’t say it out loud. “Why _did_ she cut your hair?” he asks instead. “It’s hardly the symbol of your strength, although thinking about it, you are quite vain...”

“The Bible, John!” Sherlock snaps at him, once again turning his head just slightly towards John. It can’t be comfortable. “It was her final act. The re-enactment of the story. She fully became a Delilah by cutting Samson’s hair. My hair. It had to be the hair, obviously.”

“Obviously,” John repeats fondly like an amused echo. “Well, she didn’t quite succeed, did she?” he says and finally has Sherlock’s full attention, a scathing remark already forming itself on the detective’s lips. “You are still very much yourself,” John tells him and before he can think better of it, he leans down and kisses Sherlock on the top of his head. Then he smiles and gets up. “I’ll order us some dinner,” he says and Sherlock’s eyes follow him with undivided attention. “Chinese ok with you?”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything but he follows John to the kitchen and John quite forgets about the dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see, I interpreted the word _disastrous_ quite liberally.;)  
>  I decided to experiment with the structure a little bit. I hope it's not too chaotic.


End file.
